


Endings Pave the Road to Better Beginnings

by AU Mer-Maid (neonstardust)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Don't Let The Tags Fool You This Is Safe For Work, Established Relationship, Kinktober 2019, Nostalgia, Post Canon - Aged Up Character(s), Post-Canon, Post-Canon - Third Years, Uniforms, Wholesome Safe For Work Content In My Kinktober? Heck Yeah, not quite proposals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-16
Updated: 2019-10-16
Packaged: 2020-12-20 21:44:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21063677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neonstardust/pseuds/AU%20Mer-Maid
Summary: Yahaba promises himself he will not fall asleep. No matter how many yawns his tired body throws at him, he'll keep fighting. He has to study. He will not give in.Waking up in someone else's bedroom, he knows he lost the fight.





	Endings Pave the Road to Better Beginnings

**Author's Note:**

> Kinktober 2019 - Prompt: Uniforms

This isn’t his ceiling.

Laying in the shadows of a midafternoon thunderstorm, Yahaba listens to raindrops pelt against the windows. Heat clings to the bedsheets. Blinking up at the unfamiliar ceiling, he snuggles deeper into the pillows, breathing in the scent of green apples and the darkness of the woods.

He’s in Shirabu’s room. The realization comes to him like a waking dream, both new information and something he had known all along. Rolling over, he pulls the blankets up to cover his nose. Warmth engulfs him, but at the edge of the bed, he feels the distinct chill of lifelessness. Shirabu isn’t there.

Sleep claims him again, quiet and peaceful. He dreams of inky skies and dancing lights. Walking through an enchanted forest, he finds magical homes and a wishing cliff, much more potent than a wishing well. The rocks crumble beneath his feet. On the verge of falling, he finds himself suspended in air, in cloth.

Yahaba blinks at the clock on the wall. The rain slows into a melodic drizzle prattling across the roof. He pulls the blanket cocoon tighter around himself, but his stomach wins the battle with a desolate whine.

“Shirabu?” Stretching, Yahaba sits up. A chasm seems to stretch between the top of the bed and the floor, and he cringes at the thought of putting his feet on the cold tile. “Hello?”

Sliding reluctantly out of bed, the sheets pulling beneath him as if they don’t want to let him go, he makes his way to the kitchen. All the lights are off. Shuffling through the shadows, he rubs his eyes and looks for signs of life. Shirabu’s shoes are gone. On the coffee table, Yahaba finds his textbooks still laid out from a study session that ran on too long.

“Are you home?” Yahaba asks. He’s well aware that he’s alone, but on the off chance that he’s wrong, Shirabu won’t have any reason to complain. Not that Yahaba can think of what he would complain about. Someone who went to the effort of carrying Yahaba to bed after he fell asleep on the couch clearly doesn’t have a problem with him still being there the next day.

He might mind Yahaba stealing the last slice of pizza from the refrigerator, though, but, taking a bite of cheese and pepperoni, Yahaba decides he'll worry about that later.

Sinking down on the couch, Yahaba compiles all of their supplies, returning them to their respective backpacks. Shirabu’s parents keep the house immaculate. Just the thought of cluttering such a tidy place makes Yahaba anxious.

A note peeks out beneath the coaster. Lifting it up, Yahaba looks at the handwriting without reading it. Shirabu keeps his letters thin and compact, but the horizontal strokes sweep across the paper like slashes. It’s not a note for Yahaba, but a reminder to go to the eye doctor on Thursday.

“You failed, little guy.” Yahaba drops the paper. “It’s Saturday.”

Saturday. It’s a strange word to him. It feels weightless, hollow. The edges poke out, sharp and jagged with the responsibility of weekdays, but ground down into something harmless. He leans his head back. This is what it means to be a third year. This is what it means to retire from volleyball for the rest of high school.

His school gave him time off, as if the loss of Spring InterHigh is a physical illness he needs to recover from. Based on the empty hole in his chest, he assumes they’re right.

He needs another nap. Standing up, he makes his way to the bedroom, dragging Shirabu’s backpack with him. The least he can do is tidy up a bit while bed robbing.

As the storm ebbs away, a thin beam of light slices through Shirabu’s curtains. It falls on a uniform of purple and white. The number one decorates the front of the jersey. Pulling it off the hanger, Yahaba traces his finger along the outline.

Shirabu’s days of volleyball are at an end, too. He hasn’t said anything, but Yahaba speculates this will be his last day of practice for the year. He’ll announce the name of the new captain to the second years. He’ll encourage them to work hard, and, knowing Shirabu, he’ll threaten them with a passive aggressive remark and a smile like a razor blade.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Yahaba leans forward, elbows on his knees. He wonders if Shirabu will have as hard of a time saying goodbye to their new first year setter as Yahaba had his. It’s strange to raise someone knowing they will one day replace you. Even still, it was impossible for him not to love everyone on his team, the new captain and the new setter included.

The door clicks open and shut. A shoe hits the ground, followed by the other, and a haunted “I’m home” filters through the walls.

“Yahaba?”

“In here.” Yahaba doesn’t hear him move, but when he looks up, Shirabu is leaning against the doorframe.

“What are you doing?”

“Old people things.” Yahaba folds the jersey. “Being sappy and nostalgic.”

“Go find a nursing home to do that in.” Shirabu takes it out of his hands. He examines it at arm’s length, lips pulled into a frown.

“What’cha gonna do with it?” Yahaba asks.

Lowering it, Shirabu holds the jersey up in front of Yahaba’s chest, as if he’s wearing it. “This, I guess.”

“Big ideas you got there. How do I look?”

“Hideous.”

Yahaba shakes his head. “Such a charmer.” He takes it from Shirabu. “Are you gonna keep it? Or give it to Goshiki-kun? Then again, he’s probably too tall.”

“Shut up.” Shirabu rips the jersey out of his hands, only to shove it into Yahaba’s chest. “I’m giving it to you.”

“Me?”

“No,” Shirabu deadpans. “The other person in my bedroom.”

Yahaba nods. “I always knew you kept Kawanishi-kun in your closet,” he says, not bothering to dodge when Shirabu hits him with a pillow.

“Don’t be so weird when I’m…” Biting his lip, he hits Yahaba again, this time harder.

Yahaba catches the pillow before he can go for a third attack. “When you’re…?” he prompts.

Cheeks turning just the lightest shade of pink, Shirabu picks up the jersey and hits him with it. “Nothing. Just keep it. “

“Shouldn’t you keep it? It’s yours.”

“Yeah. But if you have it,” Shirabu says, “then I’ll always have it.”

Yahaba’s chest clenches, his heart skipping a beat, and he rubs his ear, because he surely must have misheard. “What?”

Shirabu raises an eyebrow in a mock challenge. “Were you planning to leave?” He says it lightly, like just going home, but the seriousness, the permanence, of the situation undercuts the sentiment.

“No.” Yahaba smiles. “Not ever.”

Sitting down, Shirabu leans into him. “Good.”

“Yeah.”

Above, Yahaba looks at a ceiling that seems a little less unfamiliar.


End file.
